Malfoycentric
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: HP ficlets, drabbles and deleted scenes, mostly Malfoy-centric. NEW: Spoils of War. Godric- and Salazar-centric. This is the truth that subsequent generations preferred to forget.
1. Paris

**A/N – **A timestamp ficlet written for Mynuet on LJ. This is set ten years after Footprints.

**Disclaimer** – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, concepts or settings. Don't sue.

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**Paris**

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She saw him along the street front from the corner of her eye. An ordinary Muggle, middle-aged, dark-haired, in a traditional black business suit; and yet something in the way he held himself – the ironic tilt of his head, the unconscious arrogance – drew her eyes irresistibly. As she stared, puzzled, he turned and looked back at her, just for a moment –

And then, as he disappeared into the crowd, she knew.

* * *

She'd always known that he would not die so easily. No sordid end in a darkened cell for Lucius Malfoy, no anonymous encounter in a darkened alley: no, if he were to be brought down, it would be in a blaze of infamy, with all the drama and irony his scheming soul craved. So it was no real surprise to see him, to recognisehim, despite all the layers of disguise and glamour. They had been married more than fifteen years, and lovers for three more before that; she _knew _him, as well as any woman could ever know a man.

When she returned to her penthouse suite that night, she left her window open.

* * *

There was an extravagant diamond necklace on her pillow the next morning. The card, thick, creamy parchment, said only _payment long overdue. _

She hurled the glittering stones out the window and incinerated them in mid-air.

* * *

He approached her later that day, asking in clumsy, accented French whether he could sit with her on this beautiful morning. She was wearing Muggle designer-ware, classic Chanel, her ice-blonde beauty at its most intimidating and remote. His eyes mocked her, at complete odds with his manner and appearance; under his gaze, she remembered all the long, heated nights they'd spent together, when she'd abandoned her careful dignity, been reduced to elemental demands and needs.

She looked down at her long, crimson nails and flushed.

Still, she had weapons of her own. Lowering her voice, finding the rough, slightly husky tone he loved, she leaned forward, her long hair falling free of its tenuous bonds, her heavy perfume wafting around them both. She watched his grey eyes narrow, his pupils dilate.

* * *

He was sleek, agile, his hands and mouth sublimely skilled. She matched him kiss for kiss, caress for caress, their rivalry forcing them to increasing heights; unguarded, unfettered, recriminations were hissed and snarled, old grudges and blame spilling out and driving them to madness.

When finally they lay sated and sweating, there was nothing left to say.

* * *

When the morning came, he was gone. She did not search for him, did not waste even a moment of regret. Coolly, she continued her shopping holiday, spending extravagantly, enjoying all that Paris had to offer.

When she returned to England, she was once more powerful, predatory Narcissa Beaufort Malfoy Nott, who had abandoned her first husband, betrayed her second, and had carved a place for herself through sheer, ruthless ambition.

She did not look back. There was no point in it.

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	2. In Confidence

A/N – Lately I've been experimenting with Draco and Pansy. Here is my first attempt.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, settings or concepts. Don't sue.

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In Confidence

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"I couldn't kill him." He speaks the words quietly, in confidence; it is a truth that he would entrust to no one else. "I stood there over him, frozen – and I couldn't kill him."

Pansy watches him, noting his shadowed eyes. He will not meet her gaze. "I didn't think you would."

"_Snape_ killed him," Draco says, swallowing fiercely. "He stood there and watched me freeze, and then he took it into his own hands..."

"You always were his favourite."

He turns on her. "He knew I couldn't do it! He saw –" He breaks off, ashamed.

"He saw through you?" she asks, greatly daring. "He saw that for all your bluster and big talk, you've never actually killed a man?"

"Shut up!" he hisses, his face contorting. His sudden rage does not disconcert her. She knows him too well. She's seen his temper before, and it is not dangerous – _he _is not dangerous. "I am a _Malfoy! _I should have been able to –"

"What? Look into Dumbledore's eyes and murder himin cold blood? You're sixteen years old, Draco. None of us – me, Bulstrode, Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini – have ever really killed or tortured anyone. The Dark Lord knew you would hesitate." She lowers her voice. "He set you up to fail, Draco."

There is a moment of silence as they stare at each other, not daring to speak.

"You can't know that," Draco whispers, suddenly afraid. "You can't _say _that."

She puts her fingers against his lips, an intimacy that he allows because they have known each other all their lives. "You _know_ it's true. And I will say it, because it is only us, here, whispering in the shadows – I know that you'll never betray me."

He looks away. "I'm not worth your trust."

She touches his face, draws his attention back. "I think you are," she whispers, and knows that everything she's feeling is naked and exposed in her eyes.

But for the first time, she doesn't care.

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	3. Illusions I

**A/N – **A little ficlet in the Unlikely Brotherhood universe.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, concepts or settings. Don't sue.

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**Illusions **

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In the course of a long, varied life, Godric had only ever considered one place his home. Dreaming of his youth, of the days before war and chaos and bitter division, he would remember Salazar's hidden, enchanted valley, and in his dreams it was always spring, and the apple blossoms were forever in bloom.

When he remembered Salazar, he did not think of the angry, vengeful man who had almost destroyed their dreams of Hogwarts because he could not forget, and would never forgive. He did not think of the ancient prejudice, or the shifting, unstable moods; when he thought of the man who was his foster-father, his mentor, his closest companion, and eventually his enemy, he thought of him as he had been in those long-lost years in the valley.

Laughing, in the way he did with only his eyes. Smiling, that wry, crooked smile. And, though he was one of the least demonstrative men Godric had ever known, the rare hand on his shoulder, squeezing affectionately.

_Look around you, Godric-lad, _he could hear that familiar, ironic voice. _See things as they are, not as you would have them._

There had been other, more trusted friends, and more vicious enemies. But no one else had ever made him want to _believe_…

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	4. Illusions II

**A/N – **The slash bug bit. This is the result.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, concepts or settings. Don't sue.

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**Illusions II**

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In the harsh, unforgiving light of day, Lucius' skin was pallid and unhealthy, and there were new, bitter lines bracketing his mouth and lining his tired, dulled eyes. He walked uneasily, his shoulders hunched and his movements vague; it was hard to believe, looking at what he had become, that he had once been the confident, cunning Prince of Slytherin.

Azkaban had not treated him well.

During the long, uncomfortable boat ride, Severus watched him, torn; memories of his youth warring with today's bitter realities, the faded, sepia dream of 1971 refusing to die. He had so very few illusions to cling to, and the warmth of that long-ago summer had sustained and haunted him for decades.

He would like to think that he had loved Lucius, once.

* * *

"Have you looked your fill yet?"

Indulgent, gentle words, they had been then, spoken in jest, between two lovers; now, however, Lucius wielded them viciously, watched Severus flinch as the barb went home. For a brief moment, he reveled in the bitter satisfaction of it, but then Azkaban's slack apathy overtook him once more.

He had little energy left, not even for cruelty.

"I've seen enough," Severus replied, deliberately dispelling the past ritual. "But then, we are none of us what we once were."

No, they were not what they had once been. Things had not gone as he'd thought they would, when he was young and immortal and the world had been created solely for his pleasure and advancement. He'd never thought he'd grow old, or that imprisonment and indifference could wear him down, endless days of nothingness chipping away at him until it ground him down into apathy.

Once, he'd been seventeen years old, and his star had risen so high he had lost contact with the earth. But that had been a long, long time ago.

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	5. Turncoat's Honour

A/N - The third of my "timestamp" ficlets, set 6 months after Draco and Ginny marry in Loose Ends. Written for KateinVA. Warnings for mild lime, some violence and DracoOFC.

Disclaimer - I don't own HP, or any of the canon characters, situations or settings. Don't sue.

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Turncoat's Honor

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She recognised him at once.

Her investigator's reports did not do him justice: the blurred, grainy surveillance photos had not warned her of his austere beauty, and nor had the dry, passionless character analyses prepared her for the force of his presence.

She had known many men, over the years. Beauty could be purchased all too cheaply, and cold-blooded killers were everywhere in these dangerous times. However, Draco Malfoy's particular blend of charismatic, brilliant efficiency was something rarely seen –

_He is a turncoat and a mercenary,_ Petrov had said, when she began her investigations. _His fees are exorbitant, but there is nothing he cannot do. Just don't make the mistake of thinking you can buy him, as well as his skills…_

* * *

He saw her the instant she entered the room. She radiated smouldering sexual confidence, her knowing dark eyes fixing him with unmistakable intent. 

Her name was Magda Dmitriyevna. Widow of a billionaire Russian industrialist, intent on stirring trouble in the already unstable local wizarding government –

_A dangerous woman, _Petrov had told him. _She wields power like a man, but she does not think like one…_

* * *

Her hair was lush, thick and cool in the heated bedchamber, pouring over his thighs like a dark river. Her eyes were hooded and unreadable, but her mouth and her long, elegant fingers were skilled and crimson-tipped, and one did not need to look into a woman's eyes to enjoy her.

She was ambitious, ruthless, and utterly amoral. A woman after his own heart, he might have said six months ago, before –

Before his life had taken such an unexpected turn.

Closing his eyes, he banished a sudden memory of shaggy copper hair and freckled skin, burying his hands in her dark hair, encouraging her despite a part of him that despised what was happening.

Calculating, deliberate, she worked on him. There was nothing spontaneous in this encounter, nothing uncontrolled; she watched him with her flat, blank eyes even as he clenched his teeth and drew in a sharp, hissing breath, his body reacting to expert physical stimuli –

Hours later, he lay, sated, Magda by his side. Propped up on her elbow, she was tracing the old, blackened Mark on his forearm with her crimson nails, her eyes avid, her teeth biting into her lush bottom lip. He had the feeling it was the first thing that had truly excited her all night.

"What was it like?" she asked, her voice low and husky, her accent faintly Slavic. "To serve under Him?"

Draco remembered the weeks of wanton carnage and destruction, the Dark Lord's campaign of pureblooded privilege degenerating into senseless violence and murder. Even now, more than ten years after the end, he did not like to think of his actions during the height of the madness.

But that was not what she wanted to hear.

"Profitable," was all he said.

For a moment, she froze. And then she threw her head back and laughed, rich and throaty and utterly cynical.

"They are right in what they say about you," she said, sitting up beside him with no sign of modesty, every inch of her sleek, glorious body perfectly controlled. The force of her lush, exotic sexuality was enough to make him catch his breath. "You are no believer."

"What is there to believe in?" he murmured, his attention on her eyes instead of her white, distracting flesh.

"Money." She leant down to whisper in his ear, her breath warm and moist. "Power." She bit down on his lower lip. "Everything," she whispered, "that you could ever desire –" Her hand gripped him, hard, and he drew in his breath. "We will work well together, I think."

He could only grunt as she settled her weight over him, leaned forward to offer him her breasts. His hands rose of their own accord, tanned and calloused against her white skin, the ancient gold of the Malfoy signet ring his only adornment.

He wore no wedding ring.

"And who knows?" she murmured, her voice only slightly unsteady as she arched, her black hair spilling down her back, her hips sinking down, taking him in. "I may just keep you."

His hands slid down to her hips, gripped, held her still. One hand tangled in her hair, pulled her down to him, off-balance, eye to eye.

"You can't afford me," he said clearly.

She hissed, her eyes narrowing dangerously. She tried to jerk away, but he tightened his grip, kept her firmly in place.

"I'll do the job," he said, "and I will take your money. But don't think you can purchase me as well as my services."

She stared at him, her eyes narrowed in fury. There was a long, taut moment of silence, and then she laughed again – the terrible, vicious laugh of a woman scorned.

"So proud! And yet they say your new father-in-law did exactly that, six months ago – what was the price of your precious name, then, _Malfoy?_ Petrov told me it was a paltry hundred thousand galleons. Barely a fraction of your usual fee."

As close as they were, body to body, skin to skin, he could not hide his reaction to her taunt; his muscles tightened, his hands clenched tight –

And, suddenly revolted, he threw her off him, sending her tumbling to the carpeted floor in a flurry of dark hair and white limbs and shrieking, indignant outrage. He slid out of the rumpled bed and headed straight for the chamber door, his hands shaking.

Behind him, Magda rose to her feet, her fists clenched, all her exotic beauty stripped away by her rage. "Don't you _dare_ walk away from me," she snarled viciously.

He ignored her, and kept walking. But then she picked up her wand, a slender, vicious instrument with which, it was rumoured, she liked to torture her rivals' families to death.

"I'll kill you first, Malfoy," she gloated, "and then I'll go after your precious wife." She spat out a particularly virulent curse and the air in the chamber thickened, closing in on him, the oxygen in his lungs burning and poisonous. "_No one_ walks away from me before I'm finished with them."

He turned back to her, stark naked, wandless, and utterly unimpressed. A curt gesture, a muttered word, and she dropped her wand with a little cry of pain, sinking to her knees under the force of his own power.

She cursed and hissed furiously as he knelt beside her, his slender, elegant fingers gently caressing her face. She met his eyes for a short, frozen moment, all traces of the leisurely lover banished –

And then he gripped her throat, _lifted _her, and held her up off the floor, choking, her feet kicking and struggling helplessly.

"Don't threaten me, Magda," he murmured, very, very softly. "And don't _ever_ threaten my wife."

She twisted furiously, choking out hatred and mad defiance. He merely tightened his grip, watching with an objective, dispassionate eye as her face slowly darkened, flushed and engorged with blood.

His mother had taught him of honour and courtesy, taught him to never, ever raise a hand against a woman, no matter the provocation. That had been in the days before she revealed herself as a Ministry spy, betraying his father, himself, and her whole upbringing, social class, and way of life.

But even so, he could not bring himself to disregard her teachings so completely.

He dropped the choking, broken woman to the floor, left her sobbing for breath as he walked towards the heavy, ironbound doors, picking his clothes up from the couch as he passed.

Shrugging back into his robes, he turned for one last look at her, no longer the powerful, vicious woman so confident of her body and her power. He overturned the blazing candelabra, sending it crashing to the floor.

And then he left her alone as the flames began to lick at the carpet and drapes, warding the door firmly behind him.

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	6. Natural Selection

A/N – A 150 word drabble inspired by the information on house elves in DH. References to my own particular canon.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP, or the founders, or any other canon characters, settings or situations.

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Natural Selection

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"You don't have house-elves," Godric murmured, as they sat beneath the flowering apple trees one evening, the heady scent of blossom all around.

Salazar liked to watch the sunset. It was the best time to talk to him, Godric had found; mellowed by the magnificent red and gold sky, his mentor would sometimes open up and answer even the most delicate questions –

And sometimes he would not. But that was his way.

"Few of the oldest houses do," Salazar answered. He turned to face Godric, his strange yellow eyes glowing in the dying light. "They were fierce, terrible creatures once."

Godric remembered the cowering, subservient wretches he had seen on his recent trip to London. The highborn Saxon wizards kept them as servants, and treated them with the same careless affection they had for their hounds.

"What happened?" he asked.

Salazar laughed quietly. "They stood in Brandon's way," he said.

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	7. Myth and Legend

**A/N – **A scene cut from Ch 7 of An Unlikely Brotherhood, because it would have taken the political situation in a direction I didn't want it to go. However, I couldn't bear to cut it completely.

**Disclaimer** – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, concepts or settings. Don't sue.

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**Myth and Legend**

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"Athelstan is Alfred's grandson," Beorn said. "That is a heavy legacy."

Godric nodded. He remembered childhood stories of the great King, who had been the only one to hold firm against the invading Danes. "Our Arthur," he murmured softly.

Beorn shot him a sharp look, which Godric pretended not to see. He knew what the other man was thinking, what they all thought – that he was too close to Salazar, had absorbed too many of the man's dangerous ideas. But though he loved and esteemed his foster-father, he was not fool enough to think he could turn back the clock – too much time had passed, and the world had changed too much.

Arthur was dead, and he was not coming back.

"If you like," Beorn agreed amiably. "I would not say that around Aethulf, though."

Godric frowned. Aethulf, the founder of the Wizengamot, the man determined to unite the wizards of Britain under one council, did not take well to those few stubborn wizards who refused to give in to his program of changes. Salazar, in particular, seemed to provoke him into a cold, terrible rage…

"Is the very mention of Arthur so dangerous, now?"

"Aethulf seems to think it the focus of a Celtic revival. He suspects anyone with any ties to the old ways – even old wives and travelling bards."

"Not even Aethulf can stamp out myth and legend."

Beorn stopped walking, swung around to put his hand on Godric's shoulder. Gripping hard, he leaned in close and whispered in his ear, "It is not myth and legend that he fears. Arthur is dead, but the great Lords are not. The whispers speak of the Thirteen, of the great Clans – you are too young to remember the days before Slytherin's rebellion, but Aethulf certainly has not forgotten."

Godric drew in a sharp breath. "But, surely…"

"Don't you know?" Beorn mocked. "Did you not know Salazar was born in the heartland of the Clans? They say he apprenticed under the Mal-foi himself, in his hidden valley beyond the mists. They say he tried to draw his master out, when he set himself at the head of the last great resistance…"

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	8. No Victory

**A/N – **A missing scene, set before the beginning of Misunderstandings. After the war, Draco contemplates what they have won.

**Disclaimer** – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, situations or settings. Don't sue.

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**No Victory**

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_Run away, run away tonight  
it ain't no victory but I don't care,  
__I don't care if it's wrong or right_

'_Run Away', by Live._

* * *

It had been nearly seven years since he had last set foot on his own estates. Then, at eighteen years old, he'd been shocked and horrified to see the destruction; now he was almost immune to it. In retrospect, what the Death Eaters had done to his land and people was no worse than any other sights he'd seen during the war, but Draco could not be objective in this. Not then, and not now…

They had won, hadn't they?

Almost ten years since Diggory's death; ten long years of fear, hatred and division, of endless horror and madness. So many dead, so many irrevocably changed –

They would all have to live in the peace they'd fought so hard to secure. Just as he would have to live with the consequences of his actions and choices: what he had done, and what he had chosen not to do…

His father was dead, at his hands – Draco coolly, deliberately chose not to hand him over to the Ministry, to give him the dignified, honourable death he deserved, rather than the drooling mindlessness for which the public clamoured and bayed. Ginny was gone – she had walked away from him after four years of the closest intimacy he had ever known with another human being, left him because he had murdered his father and did not repent of it. The Death Eaters had destroyed the Malfoy estates and the Ministry had impounded and confiscated all the assets and financial accounts.

And now there was nothing left.

Ten years of war, striving for an impossible dream that none of them could quite define anymore, and now that it was all over there was nothing left. No home, no lover, and no money – not even employment, now that the Aurors and the Ministry had thrown him out.

Only an empty, terrifying peace.

Time had served to soften the scars and destruction of the Death Eater attack on the land. After seven years, saplings and grass were reclaiming the broken, blackened stones of Malfoy Manor, and new shoots were slowly pushing up out of the salted fields and covering the heaped graves.

He wondered if there was enough time in the world to heal the scars of a whole generation.

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	9. Might have been

**A/N – **This is set before my story "To Catch a Death Eater".

Disclaimer – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, concepts or settings. Don't sue.

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**Might-have-beens.**

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"Have you ever wondered," asked the nameless, faceless man, "what it might have been like, if you hadn't joined?"

Lucius Malfoy, his heavy-lidded eyes gazing blankly into the distance, said nothing.

"Surely you've thought of it, even if only in passing. So much would be different – you wouldn't be here, for one thing. Voldemort wouldn't have gained such a following; the Rising mightn't have developed into a war…"

He paused, but again there was no response. The anonymous man waited, exasperated; surely, by now, he should be used to such a non-reaction?

"Your son might still own you his father."

The calculated cruelty had instant effect: eyelids flickered, if only briefly, and the mouth tightened. Finally, Lucius Malfoy spoke. "It serves no purpose."

Vindicated by that response, and intrigued by it, the anonymous interrogator followed it up immediately. "Indulging in what might-have-been?"

"Wallowing in it. It leads only to heartbreak and disillusion, which are both fatal, in a place like this." An all-encompassing gesture, taking in the grey, soulless walls and the dark, dank corridors outside the small, cramped cubicle. Azkaban. With or without Dementors, the prison sucked the innocence and joy out of even the most heartless prisoners.

"You've tried it then." The unknown man pressed the point. He did not want to lose this opportunity, the first reaction he'd got from the man in almost two months.

"Who hasn't? We are all human, after all. Animals cannot – or do not – dream."

"There are some who would call you an animal," he replied, "for your actions, your cruelty."

A quiet laugh. "Animals don't kill without reason – they don't have the imagination for it. Nor do they indulge in revenge, or petty cruelty; like dreaming, those are entirely human traits."

"You don't have much faith in human nature."

"No. Or rather, I have great faith in it –" A sudden, cynical smile.

"Why did you do it?" The interrogator asked. "What could you possibly have stood to gain?"

_

* * *

_

_Once upon a time, Lucius Malfoy had been society's golden child, the young, brilliant leader of House Malfoy, the son of Abraxis Malfoy, one of the heroes of the fight against Grindelwald. But in1974, the first hints emerged of Lucius' involvement with an obscure right-wing terrorist group – _

_The Aurors had been shocked. Abraxis had been so proud of his son, so certain that he would one day grow out of his insolent, reckless rebellion, but he had died in a squalid Muggle war in 1970, leaving sixteen-year-old Lucius alone – everything, so the official biographers said, had gone downhill after that. _

_It was easy to apportion blame, to point to certain acts and omissions and say 'here, if only it had been otherwise…' The apologists and the doctors had candidates enough: the Ministry, who sent Abraxis on the mission and then tried to cover up their mistakes; the Aurors, who had failed to watch over young Lucius properly, after his father's death; even the unknown agent who'd recruited him, tempting a young boy into the shadows. _

_But now it was 1997, and the sympathy gained by a father's death had worn thin; the Aurors, who dealt with more harsh reality than the biographers and psychiatrists would ever see, knew exactly where to place the true blame for Lucius' fall: squarely at his own feet. _

_Ultimately, Lucius, and no one else, was responsible for his own sins. And there had been so many of them…_

_The devastating 1972 campaign that had all but brought wizarding Britain to its knees. _

_The 1973 assassination of Evan Fitzgerald, the strong, popular Minister of Magic whose aggressive actions had rallied wizarding society, and who, had he lived, might have been able to cut the Rising in the bud._

_The attempted coup in 1974, the event that had finally brought him to the attention of his father's old comrades. That had been the Death Eaters' last try at gaining power through even remotely political means: after the coup failed, they turned to indiscriminate violence. The Aurors might have been able to forgive Lucius if he'd turned away after the failure of political terrorism, but he'd continued with the Death Eaters even when they lost all chance at legitimacy. _

_The massacre at the Grey Kneazle in 1975, a nightclub in Diagon Alley mostly patronized by muggleborns. One hundred people, most of them in their late teens and early twenties, slaughtered in the close confines as they danced to the latest Muggle music._

_A litany of violence, murder, and terror, and all in the name of…what?_

_Who truly knew how Lucius Malfoy thought?_

* * *

"Why did I do it?" asked Lucius Malfoy, the Dark Lord's right hand, son of one of the most famous Aurors of the 20th Century. "Because I could. Because it pleased me, at the time."

"That's it? Because it pleased you?"

Malfoy tipped his head back against the chair rest, laughing softly under his breath. "Is that not enough? I was eighteen years old. Now I am forty-four – and, like all men who have grown up, I look back and shake my head."

"You regret your actions?"

"Regret? No. Regrets are as useless as might-have-beens, in the end. They do nothing but stir up things best left untouched…"

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	10. The Road Not Taken

**A/N – **My first attempt at Lucius/Lily, even if only friendship-wise.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, concepts or settings. Don't sue.

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**The Road not Taken**

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The first time she saw him, he was a white, shining god in green and silver. Sixteen, to her eleven, it was a huge margin of superiority. Distance enough to promote friendship…?

He would never say, later, why he made the first step. Perhaps, had she lived longer… But there was no point in 'perhaps', or in questioning Malfoy's quicksilver whims. _Isn't it enough, _he'd asked her once, _that you have something of me that Narcissa never will? You should be gratified._

_I would be, if I believed you, _she'd answered thoughtfully. _But sometimes, you don't say what you mean… _

* * *

Unused to wizarding customs, Lily sometimes probed too deep.

Disdaining Muggle sentimentality, Lucius refused to go deep enough.

Had their relationship been romantic, it might have foundered on their lack of real communication. He did not speak of wants and likings, or feelings and emotions. She learned to read him anyway, without the distraction of irrelevancies. What he said was sometimes true, but often misleading. What he didn't say was important, but not always the true heart. What he never revealed –

Ah…

In talking with him, she learned to listen.

It was not, however, a skill necessary with James Potter.

_

* * *

_

_If only you were gentler_, she sighed much later, when five years was no longer an insurmountable gap. _Less prejudiced. If only he was more like you._

_I don't see how the two relate, _he answered lazily, his mind on matters other than Lily and her turbulent romance. _We can't be anything other than what we are._

Examining him closely, she noted the small, ironic smile. In this humour, profound words meant less than nothing –

_Lucius_, she drawled, _if only I didn't know you so well. I might wish my love could reform you… _

That focused his attention. He smiled.

* * *

And then she was gone.

He found himself wishing Potter had been more hardheaded, less reckless and courageous. He might have been able to keep his family out of trouble –

_We can't be anything other than what we are. _

Lily Evans-Potter had been a Mudblood. A sometimes friend, a curious companion, yes; but still a Mudblood nevertheless. He had a pureblooded wife and child. He had everything he'd planned, except… Why should he mourn something he'd never before wanted? He'd never desired anything other than success, power, and a perfect pureblooded life.

He'd never believed in anything else. Until now.

* * *

Years later, Draco came to him with a yearbook and an old photograph.

A tall, bright man-child, the glow of success and power surrounding him, and a small, unusual tag-along, tolerated –

_Isn't this Potter's mother, Father? Why are you both smiling?_

He remembered that moment, the first thick snowfall of winter in the week before Christmas. Lily, rugged up in a scarlet and gold scarf and beanie, had provoked him into a laughing, tussling snowball fight. At twelve, she'd been on the verge of awareness; at seventeen, he'd been far too old.

However, captured, preserved, the potential remained –

Forever unexplored.

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	11. Friendship

**A/N – **Another experiment in Lucius/Lily friendship. Highly implausible, but certainly great fun to play with.

**Disclaimer** – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters or concepts. Don't sue.

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**Friendship**

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The train was moving, every moment taking her further and further away from her old, familiar world. After weeks of preparation, she was finally on her way to Hogwarts, the strange, magical school where she would learn to become a witch. The surreal, wonderful adventure was no longer a dream. London was long gone, a dark blur on the horizon, and she was all alone in this new world –

"Excuse me," a smooth, silver-plated voice murmured behind her, jerking her out of her panic attack, "you're in the way."

"Oh!" she said, automatically moving to the side. "I'm sorry, I was…"

"Hyperventilating," he said, almost sneering. She stared at him, her eyes wide, and he swore and muttered under his breath about first years. "Look, if you're going to have a panic attack, then go into one of the compartments. Don't stand out in the corridor, blocking the way."

Suddenly, it was all too much. She burst into tears.

* * *

Lucius looked down at the tiny first year, her big green eyes welling with tears.

"Oh, for–" he began, but bit off the exclamation as her eyes went even wider. "Look," he said hastily, hoping to calm her down, "for the gods' sakes, don't cry. Come on, I'll find an empty compartment –"

"There are none," she gulped out, looking as tragic as only crying females could.

"Right," he said decisively. "Then I'll kick someone out." He was rewarded with a damp, tremulous, utterly glorious smile. For a moment, he looked hard at her, wondering if she was playing him as skilfully as the most dangerous of Slytherin femmes fatale.

"Come on, then," he said, suddenly uncomfortable. "Let's go."

* * *

Together, they went down the corridor towards the end, where Lucius found Goyle and Crabbe alone in a compartment, playing cards and gorging themselves on chocolate. Lucius tapped on the window and got their attention. "Out," he mouthed, jerking his thumb in an unmistakable gesture. After the first, brief moment of surprise and hesitation they obeyed, peering suspiciously at Lily as they filed past.

When they were heading down the corridor, still shaking their heads, he ushered the girl into the compartment and closed the door.

"Here."

Lily looked up to see an embroidered cotton handkerchief. She took it gratefully, sniffing, as she wiped away the last of her tears. "Thank you," she mumbled, embarrassed by her tears. "I hate crying," she said, looking up at him. "I mean, I really hate acting like a…like a…"

"Don't worry," he said, shifting uncomfortably, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"It's just… It was all so overwhelming. I mean, magic! Who'd have believed it? I guess I'm still not used to the idea of being a witch."

There was a brief moment of hesitation. "You don't look like a mudblood," he said quietly. "I took you for a London witch."

She frowned, clutching his handkerchief in her fist. "Mudblood?" She didn't like the sound of that word, or the sudden change in his manner.

"Yes," he said in that same, subdued tone. "A witch or wizard born of ordinary parents." He looked away. "It is not a…complimentary term."

* * *

_It was there, in that compartment, seeing his sudden, instinctive withdrawal, that she began to realise that not everything in her new world was bright and wonderful. _

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A mudblood! How could he have misjudged her so badly? She was staring at him accusingly now, her eyes full of hurt and betrayed trust.

"Do you," she said in a small, broken voice, "do you really think that? Just because…just because my parents are normal...?"

He swallowed. Centuries of pureblood prejudice and privilege came up hard against guilt, confusion, and a pair of huge green eyes. "No," he ground out. "But there are others who _will _think so."

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_It was there, as he watched her eyes darken, that he realised he did not think of her as a mudblood._

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The train pulled to a noisy, whistling halt. The students milled around, laughing and shouting as they prepared to disembark, and Lucius stood up and pulled the young girl up with him. For the last hour, he'd given her an intensive lesson in what she might expect at Hogwarts, and after her initial resistance, she'd actually listened and understood.

He felt rather proud of her.

"Malfoy," she said quietly, shrinking back against him as he led her through the crowd, "are you sure about this?"

"You've come this far," he said dryly, "you can hardly go home again."

She scowled at him. "I'm not sure I can face this. After all you've told me –"

"The prejudice against mudbloods is not universal, Evans, as I'm sure you're old enough to know. It's just a matter of finding the right friends." He grinned, suddenly. "If anyone gives you trouble, tell me. I'll set them straight."

She paused in the corridor, an impediment to the stream of students flowing towards the exit. "But – _you're _one of the –"

"And so I know exactly what I'm talking about." He gave her a small shove, propelling her away. "Now go."

She grinned, and skipped happily down the steps, joining the gathering group of first years on the platform.

Lucius watched her go. "If anyone lays a hand on her head," he said quietly, knowing that the right people – Lestrange, Avery, McNair, and all the others – were paying attention, had been watching avidly since it became clear he'd taken the mudblood girl under his wing, "I'll make you all wish you'd never been born."

_

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_

_Hours later, alone in the Gryffindor dormitory with the other first year girls, she hugged the memory of her splendid, cynical, hypocritical protector to herself. It was not attraction, or adoration, or even hero worship. But she smiled just the same, a delighted, very feminine smile._

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	12. Diminished

**A/N – **The original inspiration behind Diminished.

**Disclaimer – **I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, concepts or settings. Don't sue.

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**Diminished**

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It was raining at the funeral. The air was thick and heavy, pressing down on her, restricting her breath, until she could no longer bear the sympathy and commiserations. She escaped the crowded church to wander aimlessly through the cemetery, drifting ghostlike in the silent stillness, until a sharp thrill of awareness jolted her, and she turned to see him there in the shadows, watching her.

For a heartbreaking moment, she thought it was Draco again, miraculously come to life – she drew in a shocked, overjoyed breath – but then he moved, and came into the light.

It was not Draco.

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It would have been easy – a whispered word, a silent gesture – to divert the rain. But intellect and reason no longer ruled him; he had finally learned humility, and to bow to forces outside his control. So he stood in the cemetery and let it rain, misting his hair, dampening his robes, and he laughed –

_Enjoy your last glimpse of the sky, Death Eater!_

_– _because he could.

In the half-light, where phantasms and illusions thrived, Ginny Malfoy – a pale, grieving, dulled wraith – searched for shattered dreams and impossibilities. Deceived, she turned brightening eyes to him; deliberately, he destroyed the illusion.

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She could have returned to the Burrow, but it was not home: home had been wordless understanding, soundless laughter, and unspoken connection. She could no longer bear the noise, and fled, seeking a place free of shared memories and fragments of their marriage.

The manor house echoed with Malfoy past and present, and in the emptiness it brooded; a live entity, a symbol of centuries of dominance, intrigue, and ill-gotten influence, now reduced to housing only two. She had borne no children. There was only Lucius, now, and herself; one day, the Malfoy line would finally come to an end.

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They said that he forfeited his rights, and so consequently awarded them to her – but she was completely unprepared for such responsibilities. He knew this, was amused by it; it was easy, in the beginning, to remain indifferent.

Eventually his sense of duty reawakened.

_There are greater issues here than your self-indulgent grief. Accept your position and take control of the estate._

_Why?_

_Your marriage was extremely convenient for the Ministry – far more so is your widowhood. I refuse to let them control you or – through you – the estate; it has stood independent so long, you must not surrender it._

* * *

Her husband was dead. What did she care for investments, or for politics? However, Lucius and Finch – the wizened old man of affairs – urged her to greater interest; finally, she gave in.

_If you care so much about the estate, then bloody well look after it yourself!_

Unfortunately, given his criminal history, everything had to be done in her name. And when he pointed this out, irony in his voice and the curl of his lip, she realized something very strange: He, of all people, could cause havoc, given free rein once more.

But somehow, she didn't think he would.

* * *

So began an arrangement satisfactory to all parties. He regained de facto control, their fortunes increased, and she was left to mourn in peace. However, she began to fade, and had she not been the legal owner of everything he coveted, he might have let her. When she died, twenty-five centuries would end with her. The Ministry would take possession – nothing would stop them this time – and the oldest pureblooded house in Britain would die.

Unless…

It was not, perhaps, the most palatable of concepts. But he, himself, was still capable of producing a Malfoy heir to spite them all…

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	13. Stations of the Cross

**A/N – **A Loose Ends ficlet.

**Disclaimer - **I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, settings or concepts. Don't sue.

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**Stations of the Cross**

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**1.**

His father had been taken away from him when he was fifteen. Some people – in their search for clues to his character – saw this momentous change in his circumstances as the catalyst for his gradual drift away from belief in either side of the war –

From the Ministry, who had put his father in gaol, and from the Death Eaters, who had let it happen –

And it was true enough, in its way.

But his true disassociation – the final break – had begun two years later, when he was seventeen, when his mother had finally shown her true colours. Narcissa Malfoy had coldly, callously betrayed all the secrets of twenty years of loyalty, denied and made a mockery of her marriage and her entire life since she had finished Hogwarts.

_"Why?" he had wanted to ask her, the first time he learned of what she had done. "Why did you do it? Did Father and I mean so little to you?"_

The damage had been so utterly devastating – she had been, as Lucius' wife, in the highest circles of the Dark Lord's confidence – and so far-reaching that the more ironic among the Death Eaters were calling her a modern-day Philby. Certainly she had disappeared just as thoroughly, and with just as much need.

_But she had gone, without word, without warning or even any sort of explanation other than the cold reality of her betrayal. He had never seen her again, had never even come close to learning why. _

And so, with one parent in Azkaban, and the other Gods-knew-where in protective custody, it was not surprising that he became disillusioned with the blinkered viewpoints of the main antagonists on both sides.

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**2.**

He had entered the game just after his mother's disappearance. Vulnerable, confused, unconsciously searching for answers and justifications, he had listened perhaps a little too much to the only other paternal influence in his life – to Snape, who had had his own hidden agenda in comforting and counseling a young, impressionable Malfoy. Allowing himself to be convinced, he had been inducted into the Order of the Phoenix just before the end of his seventh year, in time to be included in – dragooned into – the massive offensives and witch hunts that had all but wiped out the main parent group of the Death Eaters.

The Order and the Ministry had professed to be the 'good' side in the struggle, but there had been nothing saintly about the grim, driven ruthlessness with which Moody and his followers had rooted out their enemies. Dumbledore had protested, of course, but the Order – and, on a larger scale, the Ministry – had been split between two main factions, one of which preached justice tempered with mercy and understanding, and the other which preached retribution.

Normally, Draco would have agreed with Moody, had it not been for the fact that he knew – was kin to – most of those targeted for punishment. Finding himself more allied to Dumbledore's school of thought, which he would normally have thought contemptible, and yet knowing that such ideals had very little power to alleviate the persecutions, he had not resigned himself to the situation, but had done something about it…

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**3.**

_"…The Order of the Phoenix has abandoned its ideals and any moral credibility it might ever have possessed. The Ministry, in its support of Moody's witch hunts, has shown itself to be an unjust, illegitimate authority that rules through tyranny and terror rather than through law, and therefore has forfeited any right to obedience…"_

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**4.**

Perhaps the main reason he was so distrusted now, by so many parties, had been his part in the short-lived, chaotic almost-secession he had provoked in order to stop Moody's excesses. A last ditch effort by so many pureblooded families, one last chance to change things –

To change the very fabric of wizarding England, and overthrow the Ministry that had stood for centuries. To show the world that they were purebloods, and that it had meant something, once – they had _ruled _this land, long ago.

It had been squashed, of course, but not before it had shown signs of becoming a real force. It was gone, crushed, but not forgotten – oh, no, the force of their ideals would live for a long, long time in memory…

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**5. **

He'd been promptly and quite publicly exiled.

After the English Ministry had blacklisted him, there were not many who would have risked taking him in – at least, not then there hadn't been. A wanderer, barred from legitimate entry into wizarding Europe and America, he had simply learned to use illegitimate ways and means, much like they said muggle criminals learned so much more in their prisons than they ever had outside. A whole new world opened to him – a world of ex-Aurors and ex-Death Eaters, of skilled professionals and the shadowed figures who would pay well for the discreet exercise of those skills –

It did not take him long to shed the last of his illusions.

But the sight of Ginny Weasley in that cold Russian prison stirred something in him that he thought he had lost forever…

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	14. Reign in Hell

**A/N** – After the events of the Bastard Malfoy, the new head of the de Sauvigny takes stock. A 100 word drabble.

**Disclaimer** – I don't own HP. I do, however, lay claim to Luc and the House.

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**REIGN IN HELL**

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It is his, now, the greatest pureblood financial empire in Britain.

His controlling share of the House is worth _billions;_ still, it is not money he craves – he was raised amidst wealth and prestige, and has no reverence for it. With great wealth, though, comes even greater power, and influence, and it is power that satisfies his Malfoy soul and calms the shadows of his deepest fears.

Power enough that _nothing_ would ever threaten him or his again.

In the darkest hours of the night, when he's most honest with himself, it's not enough. But it's all he has left.


	15. Spoils of War

**A/N** – A short conversation between Gryffindor and Slytherin, set in my own preferred interpretation of canon from "The Unlikely Brotherhood". This is one of the original plot-bunnies that came during my reading of The Deathly Hallows. As I recall, the goblins swore that Godric had stolen his sword from them, and still bore a grudge nearly a thousand years after the fact.

**Disclaimer** – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, settings or situations. No money was made in the writing of this fic.

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**Spoils of War**

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This is the truth that subsequent generations preferred to forget: Godric Gryffindor was a man like any other man, with all of man's potential for infamy as well as heroism. He was a warrior, an adventurer, and a visionary; he was also, at various times during his life, a mercenary, a pirate, and a killer.

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There was a pot of stew bubbling on the hearth, and the rich scents of meat and gravy filled the cabin. Warming his hands at the fire, Salazar felt the moment Godric passed through the barrier and stepped into the valley. Silent footsteps moved lightly over the earth – that was something Salazar had taught him; stealth, and subtlety, and how to walk the land like a true Briton, not a great, hulking Saxon.

"Godric-lad," he said, not turning, when a swirling draught of night air announced Godric's arrival at the cabin door. "I have not seen you in some years. How was your journeying?"

There was the soft, rumbling sound of Godric's laughter. "Profitable."

Salazar laughed. "Well, that is one measure of success, I suppose." He turned around, finally, to behold his not-so-young apprentice: a man in his prime now, all strapping muscle and long, shaggy hair. They clasped hands, and Salazar felt the strength in Godric's arms. "Will you sit down?" he asked. "I have made enough for two."

"Willingly," Godric answered, accepting a bowl of stew, and then lowering himself to one of the old chairs drawn up near the fire. It was here, by the hearth during the long cold winters, that Salazar had taught him all the tales of old Britain, keeping the flame of his old dreams and loyalties alive.

It seemed strange to see him here once more, after so long away.

"Tell me of your travelling, then. It's been so long since I was last on the road. What wonders, what terrors did you see?"

Godric's eyes grew dark and distant, remembering. "Precious few wonders…" he mused. And then, "Bjorn and I, we sailed against the great goblin king, Ragnuk, who sought to take all the trade of the Baltic for himself. Together we tore his castle walls down around him and slew him in his own treasure chamber. I pried this from his cold, dead hands." He removed a long, cloth-wrapped bundle that had been slung across his back and held it out to Salazar, hilt first.

It was a sword, richly decorated and perfectly balanced; drawing a few inches of steel, he saw that it had been hammered and folded upon itself thousands of times by master smiths –

Salazar let out a long, slow breath. "Master craftsmanship," he murmured in awed appreciation. "See, here," he said, pointing out a tiny, engraved mark near the tang. "The maker's mark."

"Yes," Godric confirmed, his hand stroking proudly – possessively – over the scabbard. "It is Wayland's work."

"They will not soon forgive you for this, Godric-lad. You know how tightly they hoard their treasures. And this must be one of their royal heirlooms."

Godric's smile was razor-edged. "Ragnuk's subjects died to the last man to protect his treasure. In the end we killed his entire warband and burned his castle down to the waterline. I _earned _this sword, Salazar. The goblins may try and take it from me, if they dare."


End file.
